An Odd Family Moment

Last fall, I gave a talk on suicide and suicidality at the University of Washington's Bothell campus. The audience was a mix of families, advocates and patients, several of whom had lost loved ones to suicide. At one point, I was asked why I hadn't killed myself. My response was probably not too helpful since I answered that it was my own foolish ego that had kept me from an early end. I figured I had some things in life I wanted to try and get done and couldn't let myself end it with a knife.

Later, I described myself and my own mental illness with one word--bipolar. I know that for some in the mental health world describing yourself that way is becoming controversial. That we are not supposed to say so-and-so is a schizophrenic but that we should handle the matter with tongs and say that so-and-so is "a person afflicted with schizophrenia." Somehow there is supposed to be less stigma attached to that and it changes things from sounding like so-and-so's life is defined by schizophrenia to schizophrenia isn't them at all. I think that anyone who buys into that is kidding themselves (try living with any of the mental illnesses and then tell me what you'll call yourself) and perhaps trying to shield themselves from being implicated in a crime of some kind. Whatever.

When the talk ended, I spoke with some of the audience in the lobby. I was approached by one woman who came up to me and said, "You cannot use that word."

"What word?"

"Bipolar," she said. "My son was not bipolar. He was a person afflicted with bipolar disorder."

I told her that she had just used 6 words to accomplish what I could in 1 or 2, and that I would continue to do so.

She looked at me for a second and said, "Get with it." Then she slugged me in the shoulder.